


some other beginning's end

by xxx_cat_xxx



Series: Red in my Ledger [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bittersweet, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, F/M, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Natasha Hates Cooking, Natasha Romanov Feels, Pre-Avengers (2012), Sex, So Clint Cooks For Her, nor a love story, this is not porn, too many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27774862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_cat_xxx/pseuds/xxx_cat_xxx
Summary: Clint deserves someone like that, she decides. Someone who’s a stranger to the blood and bodies paving their way. Someone to whom bruised cheekbones are a reason for worry, not relief. Someone to soothe violence, not cause it.Or, the reason why Nat and Clint will never sleep with each other again.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Series: Red in my Ledger [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1335283
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	some other beginning's end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Builder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/gifts).



> Inspired by the beautiful fic [Other People](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563618/chapters/21624326) by MillyVeil. 
> 
> This contains pretty graphic sex, so I thought I'd warn you since that's not exactly what I usually write. 
> 
> Many thanks to [Whumphoarder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder) for beta reading and to [QuietlyImplode](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietlyImplode/pseuds/QuietlyImplode) for your ideas and encouragement.

It could have been an evening as close to normal as Nat would ever get one, if it wasn't for the headache―and everything that followed after.

After picking her up from the SHIELD debrief, Clint brought her directly to his place and a table decked with fresh Pasta Arrabbiata and wine, apparently knowing full well that her dinner would have otherwise consisted of instant noodles or a sandwich. 

Nat would only ever touch a saucepan if her life―or the success of a mission―depended on it. Clint is mostly indifferent to cooking, but unfairly more skilled at it than this indifference would warrant. His Arrabbiata is more fiery than the average white American version, more so even than the Italian original, and although she’s never asked about it, she senses that this particular recipe is one of the many intangible souvenirs he carries around from his time with the circus.

They don’t talk much while eating, but Nat shares a handful of anecdotes from the twenty-day mission she completed this morning—how Miller had almost screwed up the whole thing by getting his gun stuck in his boot― _again_ ―and Clint updates her on SHIELD gossip, Coulson’s new flame, a bar pianist he’s never going to have the courage to ask out, and who fucked who after the Thanksgiving party at the main office Nat missed this year. 

Neither of them cuts back on wine, and that combined with the heavy food means that an hour in Nat almost feels relaxed, almost feels the tension bleed out of her shoulders and mostly manages to calm her urge to constantly check the door and windows behind Clint―who, wisely, let her have the seat with her back to the wall. 

But she’s had a headache since the last time she woke up, which was definitely not this morning—measured in any of the timezones she’s been in. The pounding in her temples only gets worse as the evening progresses and the adrenaline finally fades for good. It’s just fair payment for a night too many in which she took double watch, knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway with Miller supposed to have their back. 

The stabbing in her temples is hard to ignore now that she doesn’t need her brain for anything else, but it’s nothing to worry about. So Nat excuses herself to the toilet and raids Clint’s bathroom cabinets for a double dose of Advil in the hope it will do something, then refills her wine glass upon her return in case it doesn’t.

*

It ends, inevitably, in bed. They’ve been doing that for a while now, often after, sometimes during missions when they were of the kind that require patience more than stealth or wit. It’s rare to have good sex with no strings attached, without the aim of hacking into the other’s computer and extracting data once he’s fallen asleep, without having to explain why _we really can’t meet again next Friday for movie and dinner, sorry, I’m moving out of town_. 

The pasta pretty much took the role of foreplay, so they don’t waste too much time getting out of their clothes. A few minutes of tasting each other’s wine-heavy lips before Clint pushes her down on the bed and makes for her nipples. Flat on her back, Nat stares up at the ceiling; the light’s still on and it’s hurting her eyes, making the pain in her head sharper, viler, and suddenly all she wants is to close them and pass the fuck out, preferably for the rest of the week. 

Nat hadn’t even given it a thought, lost in the routine they’ve established, but now she realises she isn’t actually wet; any previous excitement brought on by wine and three weeks without privacy having been extinguished by the pain pulsing through her nerves. But it’s a bit late to realise that; Clint’s suddenly got protection on and is moving his dick close to her entrance, one arm holding up his body weight and the other massaging her breast. 

So she sucks it up, forces herself to ignore the exhaustion and get her head in the game. It hurts when he enters her but it’s a pain she’s used to, sometimes even grateful for, and she knows her expression doesn’t change when she wraps her legs around his hips to let him penetrate even deeper.

Soon enough they both have started sweating in the overheated room, and she can smell herself while their bodies rub on each other, immediately regretting the shower she forewent in favour of getting the debrief over with quickly. It’s disgusting, almost nauseating, putting her off in a way that his smell never would. She knows Clint doesn't mind; hell, they’ve done it in places and conditions far more rancid, but it’s just another thing throwing her off her game tonight.

She just wants to get over with it quickly now. Usually there’s more playfulness, more stopping and teasing and sometimes an elaborate game of ropes involved. But now she just forces Clint to roll onto his side, gets on top without him even slipping out, and sets a rougher pace that she knows will have him on edge quickly enough. 

“In a hurry?” He blinks up at her playfully but with a glimpse of concern in his eyes.

“What, you can’t keep up?” she teases, then, ignoring the way the pain in her head spikes upon the change in altitude, bends down to make their lips meet before he can say anything else.

He tries to get his fingers in between them to touch her, but she pushes them away, knowing that if there's any chance of her coming tonight it has to be her own fingers doing it. So she touches herself while allowing her mind to zoom out and away, wander back to the mission to review mishaps and faults and create a mental checklist of what to improve for next time. 

After a few minutes, Clint starts to shudder under her and she has to rip herself out of her thoughts and concentrate on trying to climax soon because he’s almost there. His penis inside her is throbbing in rhythm with her pounding head, actually hurting now in a way that makes her feel far younger. Suddenly, she feels like she’ll be sick.

Nat grips the bed board hard and hides her face from him inside the curtain of her hair, breathing shallowly until the nausea recedes a little. 

“You okay?” Clint asks, eyeing her critically and almost calmly despite the sweat on his forehead and the blush on his cheeks. He’s stopped moving inside of her, and she knows he’s watching her now, won't miss a beat if she shows any other sign of something being wrong. Her throat is still tight with nausea, so instead of replying she nods, then cocks her hips up a little so he goes in deeper and he grunts in a mix of pleasure and pain.

 _Get your shit together_ , she mentally berates herself. _You’ve done it with worse than a stupid headache._

Nat bites her lip and moves her fingers faster, and she knows it’s only a few more minutes when she makes the mistake of briefly resting her forehead against the bed frame. And that’s when he pulls out, pushes her up and rolls away from under her in one swift motion. 

“Hey what’s that,” she demands, almost rudely, because she really, really doesn’t want this to take any longer. 

“What’s going on with you?” he asks, all composed, but his face is closed off now. 

“Nothing. Can we just”―she motions her hand at the bed―“get on with it?”

He moves further away from her to sit up against the headboard. “Not if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Just a headache,” she waves off.

Clint frowns. “You know we don’t have to do it.”

“ _It’s just a headache_ ,” she repeats. Pushes her chin a little forward, challenging him.

“Yeah, but there’s nothing gained by making it worse. We don’t have to do it if you don’t feel like it today.”

And then it slips out, through the waves of tiredness and frustration washing over her. “But you cooked for me.”

An emotion flashes in his eyes before they go blank, sadness so dark it almost looks like anger. Clint stands up and turns his back to her, gets dressed in a minute. He leaves the room without another word. 

*

Later, Nat finds him on the dirty balcony, smoking one of her cigarettes. Most SHIELD agents are chain smokers in their free time—no use saving your body for old age if the average life expectancy doesn’t even touch 50—but it’s something she hasn’t seen him do before. 

Her headache is worse when she’s upright, small white sparks erupting in front of her eyes which she ignores when she pushes open the dirty screen glass door that leads her outside. 

She wondered whether he’d be pissed, while she was lying on the cooling cover and trying to decide on her next steps with options ranging from leaving without another word to just falling asleep right there and dealing with the fallout whenever she’d wake up again. It was the nagging foreboding in her stomach that this night might have consequences for far longer than she can fathom that made her give in to neither of those and instead walk barefoot onto the dusty balcony.

The smoke hangs heavily in the stagnant air and for a while none of them says a word. 

“Why didn’t you just stop, Nat?” Clint finally asks, voice steady and controlled. He’s not angry after all, but he isn’t looking at her either. 

“I just wanted it to be nice,” she says. _Normal_ , she doesn’t.

“Well, I didn’t feel like you were particularly enjoying it. Neither am I, by the way, now that I know you’re in pain.”

“I’m just tired,” she says. It's not a lie. Tired of work. Of violence. Maybe, maybe, tired of loneliness, and a little bit tired of life. Although she wouldn’t tell him these last two ones.

“Then you should have gone to bed instead of trying to sleep with me. Making me feel like I took advantage of you.” A bit of something has crept into his voice now—exasperation, perhaps disappointment. Whether in her or himself, she doesn’t know. 

“You didn’t, Clint. I wanted it. It’s nothing personal. Sex is nothing personal.” The words are not well-chosen, and what she means to say is, it’s nothing different from what we usually do. Flirting, fighting, fucking, in her world they are all located on the same level of intimacy. And she’d always assumed he feels the same.

“Yeah, you’ve said that before,” he retorts, his words hard now. “I know that. I just didn’t think that it’s, what, payment for me making dinner? Or maybe for me not killing you back when I was ordered to, huh? How many times do I have to sleep with you until we’re even? Until I can feel like it means something?”

Some part of her realises that she’s hurt him, really hurt him this time. And she feels sorry, she actually does. 

But another part of her realises that this is the crucial point. If she doesn’t make herself clear now, then everything they’ve built up over months and years might crumble to their feet within moments.

She takes a tired step forward into the cloud of smoke. 

“Clint, we’re _partners_. Friends, maybe. We have sex, yes. But that’s it. There’s nothing else.”

He looks her in the eye, too fast, too direct for it not to reveal that he’s trying too hard to show that her words didn’t hurt him. “Yeah, I know.” 

He lets out a long breath, then adds: “But just to make that clear. I will never sleep with you again.” 

*

Clint keeps his word. 

And for years, that’s how it goes. For years, part of her will be glad that this little episode―or rather, these few months of _SHIELD agents with benefits_ ―didn’t destroy the best partnership she’s ever had. Because, in the end, it’s never hard for her to find people to fuck, and she has friends, too, even a few good enough that they wouldn’t sell her down the river if the KGB offered them a fortune. 

But there’s nobody she trusts with her life like she trusts Clint, out in the field and back at home, and in hindsight, she is happy that whatever happened between them didn’t endanger that other, far more important pillar of their relationship.

For years, she tells herself that this is exactly what she wanted. 

And yet…

And yet.

*

The blood has dried on Nat’s boots by the time DC comes into view. She tries to scrape it off against the wall of the jet but earns herself an angry glance from Phil, who is sitting across from them with a laptop on his knees, getting a head start on the mountain of bureaucracy waiting for them. Civilian deaths tend to increase the paperwork tenfold. 

Clint has been napping against her shoulder for most of the ride, but now he’s awake and edgy, as if the proximity to US soil somehow refilled his energy reserves. 

The world swims in front of Nat’s eyes when the plane touches down and she pushes herself up to her toes to reach for her bags in the luggage compartment. She counts till five until the lightheadedness passes, wondering whether exhaustion or hunger is the culprit this time. She settles on the latter, mostly because with the battle’s casualties still fresh on her mind a restaurant sounds like a better place to head for than her bed. She needs distraction, not a blank ceiling to stare up to while the thoughts won’t leave her alone.

“Hey.” She catches up to Clint at the door and, for a lack of free hands, knees him into the buttocks. Behind her, Phil chuckles. “Wanna grab a bite somewhere?” 

He doesn’t even turn towards her when he shakes his head, just keeps staring at the door, impatiently waiting for it to open. “Nah. Got plans already, sorry.” 

Nat follows his gaze through the small window and sees a familiar figure on the airfield next to Fury, auburn hair in a ponytail and a pretty red coat wrapped around herself to shield her from the wind. How Laura even got there, Nat has no idea, since there’s no way she’s supposed to have security clearance for the airfield. Probably a favour of Phil’s, she thinks. 

Clint’s gone through so many girlfriends through the years that it’s hard to tell whether any will ever stick, but the thing with Laura has been going on for almost a year, and Nat knows that between missions he barely spends a night at his own apartment anymore. 

“No worries,” she says a little too casually just as the door opens and Clint glides down the stairs as quickly as if he hadn’t been on his feet for going on 40 hours now. It makes her own body feel even more weary. 

Realising that she’s just standing on top of the stairs, she urges her aching legs to start moving. On the ground, Laura and Clint are dissolving from a passionate kiss. She is running her finger over the bruise on his cheek, kind and careful in a way Nat would never think of doing. The gesture pulls a string in her chest, makes something deep inside her ache in a way she didn’t know was possible. 

Nat couldn’t be in Laura’s place, and she wouldn’t want to, either. It’s not a life she’d ever choose for herself, and not one that could bring her peace if it was chosen for her. 

Clint deserves someone like that, she decides. Someone who’s a stranger to the blood and bodies paving their way. Someone to whom bruised cheekbones are a reason for worry, not relief. Someone to soothe violence, not cause it. 

Nat knows all that. It’s not regret she feels. Not even longing. And yet…

And yet. 

Laura lets go of Clint’s face, reaching for his hand instead. He turns to wave at Nat and Phil before making for the exit of the airfield, his face ten shades brighter already. 

_I’m happy for you_ , she thinks. 

Nat straightens her shoulders and raises her eyebrow at Phil. “Fancy some takeout?” 

He looks at her for a moment too long before replying, “Sure, if I can talk Fury into giving me half an hour off the paperwork.”

“I’m sure I can persuade him,” she nods. “Let’s get pasta.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know Clint's and Laura's relationship is pretty controversial and I'm not a fan of how they threw it at us in AoU, but it seemed fitting here. 
> 
> If someone wonders about the title, it's from the Semisonic song _Closing Time_ ("every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" dadadada melodic guitar tunes).
> 
> I'd love to know what you think. You can also find me on [tumblr](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/).


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